


White Nights

by alabasterclouds



Series: Weekends at Carol's [2]
Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Age Play, Childhood Trauma, Comfort, Crying, Dark Past, Diapers, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Sexual Age Play, Nursing, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:52:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6158760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alabasterclouds/pseuds/alabasterclouds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carol comforts and takes care of Therese when she wakes up at night.</p><p>Note: This is an ageplay fic, which means that it is a kink!fic based around the kink of ageplay or infantilism. It will include those elements in it. If this isn't your thing, you've now been warned. Thanks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Nights

It had never been occasional with Therese. She never had been able to sleep well, from the very moment she was born, if her mother had anything to say about it. Always grizzling, her tiny fists clenched, her little legs drawn up to her tummy. And as a child and into adulthood, she'd wake up with the same nervous tummy, the same terror about being awake when everyone else peacefully slept around her. 

Of course, the bed-wetting didn't help. While the Home had put her into diapers at night, or at least given her extra padding and rubber sheets to protect the mattress, as an adult, Therese was embarrassed to admit she still needed these things. So she'd wake up, the towel she placed under the sheet soaked, and peel the clammy nightgown from her legs, her panties sticking to her bottom and coldly damp against her skin. And then she'd lie awake, after she was dry again, and try to get warm. And think about all of the ways she couldn't quite seem to cope. And despair of ever learning to cope when at the cusp of womanhood, she was still bloody wetting the bed, over and over, at least every two to three nights.

When she started to stay at Carol's, she would attempt to nap before the long car ride out to Carol's large home in the country. Because the nervousness would never allow her to sleep and not make a mess, or to hide from Carol the anxiety at staying with this woman who simultaneously fascinated and attracted and even frightened Therese a little. So she'd sit in the twin bed in the room down the hall from Carol, the room that used to be Harge's, and she'd while away the white night by thinking and sometimes writing, and sometimes drawing on paper she'd smuggled from the kitchen below. But eventually her eyes would get heavy, and even the buzz of anxiety wasn't enough to keep her awake. And Carol would find Therese, slumped over and curled up into a tight fetal position, the covers pushed down around her legs, the next morning.

The thing was, while that may have prevented any bed-wetting, it didn't prevent the other problem, which was the fact that Therese was really only moments from wetting her pants at any given time. At work and in everyday life, like anything else, she hid it well. Cloth padding in her panties. Staying close to a toilet. Sneaking extra breaks if she could, or simply limiting the amount of liquid she took in. But she hated the constant damp and cold feeling that accompanied her everywhere, hated the urgency and having to think about it constantly. And Carol was, and has always been, remarkably sharp. She missed nothing, least of all Therese's poorly-hidden anxiety about going out or leaving the house for long periods of time.

It was bound to happen. It always did, sooner or later. Thankfully they were outside that day; though it was bitterly cold and wintry, Carol wanted to show Therese a bit of the snowy countryside. So they walked a little ways from the house in the woods behind it, over carefully-placed stone bridges and along natural trails, and Therese had been laughing, for the first time without abandon in front of Carol, when she realized that she was going to have an accident.

It was warm and secret at first, and Therese's long coat hid it from view. If Carol noticed something different in the way Therese's laughter trailed away or she couldn't move from the place on the path where she stood, she didn't say anything. She didn't say anything until Therese was standing in a puddle that quickly cooled into the snow, and her woolen tights clung to her legs wetly, and she started to shiver. And then she turned back, and then Therese started to cry.

Carol had looked down, and then up again, and in a moment, she had Therese in her arms, hushing into her hair and rubbing her back through her coat, snuggling her close. And she said, "It's all right, darling, accidents happen. Let's go back to the house before you freeze. You poor little thing."

And Therese had wiped the cooling tears from her cheeks and tried to be an adult, even though she couldn't stop shivering on the short walk into the house. Carol had run a bath for her and provided an extra pair of woolen tights and panties from her own wardrobe. And there had been nothing to say about it until the next time Therese came to stay and it happened again, this time on Carol's kitchen floor.

One thing about Carol: she never asked why, or berated Therese for dirty habits. It was if it hadn't happened. But after the second accident, she did remind Therese to go to the toilet before they left the house, and she would stop what they were doing sometimes to send Therese to the bathroom, exactly like the mother she was. And at first Therese went, without asking questions. Then she realized that women of her age don't need to be reminded to take care of their natural needs. So she'd turn her head, slightly, as if she hadn't heard Carol, and ignore the requests. Which, she realized, Carol was expecting, and seemed a little relieved that Therese was reacting in a normal manner.

Therese was chronically sleep-deprived with Carol. Between the anxiety over the wetting and the terror of wetting the bed here, in this elegant house, in a place that not even little Rindy had been able to mess up, Therese almost never slept. And she would get weepy, and overwrought, and each time Carol would cup her face in her cool hands and suggest a nap, or a rest. Something to reset Therese. Something to make her more comfortable.

So it wasn't a surprise that the first time she wet the bed, Therese was napping on one of the twin beds in Harge's old room. And she didn't wake up when it happened; she only realized when she turned over and felt the familiar sticky wetness peel her clothing from her bottom and legs. 

Carol hadn't been surprised; but she hadn't been angry, either. "Is this why you never sleep while you're here? Oh, Therese. You should have told me. You didn't have to worry so."

"How do you know I don't sleep?" Therese's voice was choked and petulant; Carol smiled at the tone. 

"I know, darling. I've peeked in at you during the night, saw you staring out the window, or drawing." She'd taken Therese into her arms, then, cuddling her and rubbing her back. "It's all right. We can make you more comfortable. You worry all the time, don't you? You must be so tired."

And Therese had snuggled into Carol's warmth, burying her hot and ashamed face in Carol's shoulder, and tried not to sob as Carol soothed her and took care of her. Because it was novel, but it was also something Therese hadn't realized she hungered for. She wanted Carol to take care of her.

Now, Therese wakes up, the diaper that Carol has her wear here at the house wet and clammy. She's thirsty, and she's scared; she's cold and she needs to be held. And that was another thing: just how long does it take to learn to cry at night when you need soothing? Because Therese realized she hasn't since she was a baby; maybe not even then. Maybe it's possible to stop crying out for help because help never comes. 

But Therese cries now; her voice low and cracked at first, then gaining in strength and sound. She doesn't always sleep apart from Carol, but Carol had deemed her "overwrought and anxious" tonight, and had put her down for the night early and by herself to get some good sleep. Therese secretly thinks it's because she's such a bad sleeper; Carol isn't used to a restless and stiff body in her bed. She's had to teach Therese how to relax.

Carol never takes her time in coming; when she hears Therese cry, she comes to her immediately and never makes her wait. Tonight is no different. Carol's white form, dressed in a gauzy, filmy nightgown and matching dressing gown, appears at the half-open door, and Carol's face creases into that wonderfully sympathetic, love-filled gaze that always takes Therese by surprise. Therese blinks her tears away and holds her arms out to Carol.

"Oh, sweetheart. Shh, shh." Carol sits beside Therese on the bed; she takes Therese into her arms. "You're having a rough time of it, aren't you? Maybe I shouldn't have put you in here tonight."

She takes a tissue from the box beside the bed and wipes Therese's cheeks gently. Therese buries her clean face in Carol's shoulder and sniffles, a little pathetically. Of course Carol shouldn't have put her in here alone tonight. But, thinks Therese, as Carol's sleepy, perfumey scent envelopes her comfortingly and as Carol rubs her back soothingly, she also might be a bit biased.

"Are you wet?" asks Carol, pulling gently away from Therese to look her in the eyes, and Therese nods, her face flaming in the dark. Most of the time, Therese's wake-ups with Carol are due to her diaper being wet. She rarely leaks now that they've found the right combination of plastic pants and absorbent towelling, but there's still such a sense of shame when she wakes up wet that Therese can't help but cry for a little while. Even though it's okay, that Carol has told her not to worry, that she'll never be left so wet that her bottom gets sore, or that she gets cold and shivery. She still needs to cry for a little while.

Carol, to her credit, always lets Therese cry before insisting gently that she be changed before she gets a rash. She'd had one once and it had been a miserable weekend, Therese sore and weepy, Carol bordering just slightly on exasperation from being touched out by, as she calls Therese, her little girl.

Therese isn't sure what she thinks or how she feels about being changed. It's so intimate and exposing. But there's something comforting about it, too; the way that Therese lies trustingly while Carol makes sure she's clean and dry. The careful pinning and repinning of the diaper, the crackle of the vinyl panties. The way that in these cold winter months, Carol insists on putting a pair of panties over the diaper and then Therese's long woolen tights. "I don't want you to be cold. You're always shivering here, darling."

She pulls down Therese's nightgown and helps her out of bed. They'll go to Carol's big comfortable bed, where Carol will cradle Therese in her arms and let her nurse back down to sleep. She always wraps Therese in a warm blanket, always makes sure that she's snuggled and able to hold onto a fold of Carol's nightie. Therese knows she's clingy and sometimes she feels a little ashamed about it, hiding her face in Carol's nightgown, but Carol always strokes her cheek and calls her "darling" and then things seem to be all right.

The nursing makes Therese melt. Sometimes she'll even relax so much that she'll wet her pants a little. The rhythmic sucking; the way that Carol traces her face and strokes her hair; the way that Carol will cuddle her closer once she starts feeling sleepy. Therese has never felt so safe and warm. Sometimes she'll start to cry, but not because she's sad. 

It's because finally, someone loves her enough to comfort her. And Therese never thought that particular dream would ever come true.


End file.
